Beowulf: A Mother's Pain
by Avaxtskyr D'Amour
Summary: The anguish Grendal's mother feels when the "hero" slaughters her son.


From the quiet marsh he slipped through swamp-like land which engulfed his giant figure. A mother's pride could not have been greater for her grandeur son. He headed towards that golden place full of meat men, hoping to taste their blood upon his lips and their bones between his teeth.  
I am sure now, that as his voice cried out that victorious battle triumph, the meat men quaked with fear. They slinked like the cowards they are to the backs of the hall and into their rooms, closing doors and hoping that no one would dare come looking. He didn't murder a single man, they sacrificed their lives through stupidity of charge. The meat man clan became stronger.  
That wretched leader of a king decided to wreak his vengeance upon my darling son, though I warned him of a coming danger my baby boy did not listen. He once again rose to the surface, to smell the sweet scent of human blood and taste wonderful flesh upon his tongue. Then Beowulf came.  
Grendel came home to me, fatally wounded, whimpering about the dreaded Beowulf. Golden slivers lay embedded where his arm used to stand and he cried his last cry, falling to the ground and death embraced his bold heart. The bloody hole where my son's arm used to be, enraged me beyond thought or reason and upon his death I swore a vengeance.  
I sought that king and stole his friend, I stole him like he stole my son. With that wretched mortal I stole my son's lifeless limb. The meat men called the infamous Beowulf, but I was not afraid, my son had made mistakes and his naivety would be avenged.  
I sensed his presence before he met my sight, the sickening scent of heroism and unadulterated vengeance reeked about him. His splashes echoed in the darkness, and then Beowulf stood before me. That shining gold upon his chest and masculine stance sent a shock through me, I knew by scent this was no ordinary meat man. He was obsessed. Beowulf with that gleam in his eyes was obsessed to taste victory once again, to the point where it made him inhuman, his strength radiated from his tense cat-like muscles and his smile leered in haughty confidence.  
We clashed with hatred unknown to the world above or below. We clashed until my claws grew weary from the sting of hitting his mail protection and his sword grew limp in his hand with frustration. I sank my teeth in, but could only feel the grind of his in heroic determination. What made this man so sure he was a hero, killing my only son. His fellow meat men were in the wrong here, not my son. They had presented their haughty prestige and they had served the sentence of a rightful vengeance for our kind. That was something this meat men could never understand.  
We fought further and further until the very depths of hell encompassed us in loathing heat. Finally the wearied warrior fell, the dagger gripped within my hand I yelled in pure delight. My son, my darling son, would be avenged upon this day and the moon would turn red in memory of the warrior who dared to cross a mother's vengeance. Every muscled forced it's power into that swing and the dagger was brought at unearthly speeds at Beowulf. Alas, it did not kill him, he looked up with realization in his eyes that the very mail he wore of hammered link would protect him. Until I could rip that nuisance of a metal skin off, Beowulf would live on.  
Beowulf escaped my clutches during my drowning shock, and ran from me. The urge to laugh was incessant and I mocked his willingness to turn from battle.  
"Beowulf" murmured I, "Is this the great Beowulf who runs from battle when he cannot win? What a cowardly figure you have become, preying upon innocence such as my deceased son!"  
Beowulf turned at the taunt, and held up a sword, the sword of the heavens. Hammered by giants and ordained with magic, I had defeated it once before and grew confident. The man who welded it before was not the obsessed, convinced only with righteousness this man had been pure. That was my mistake. Beowulf was not pure, he was a tormented soul bent on retaliation for the long hours of life I had stolen in battle. With his reputation on the line, he swung that sword down upon me, a desperate man.  
The crack of bones roared as thunder, the darkness fast rushing to catch my falling soul, and the ground now stiff and cold. Before my decent into the gods' unmerciful decision Beowulf slew the head from my son's body. If I had had lungs to howl, they would have shown my agony, along with the tears streaming from eyes I once possessed.  
The world is a cruel place, and Beowulf raged on. His vengeful little heart slew many more beasts with little to no compassion or humanly mercy. Mothers wept beside fallen sons, and belittled we waited in the past life for Beowulf to fall so that we may meet him and reek our vengeance in a place were death would not stop the battle…  
The one day, or perhaps night… It happened. Beowulf became slain and to his undead eyes he saw our figures jeering at him. Waiting patiently as he screamed into his decent to meet a mother's wrath.


End file.
